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The New Kid (Chapter Two: Rebirth)

Dear Listener,

I am a new stable master, and I have never set foot in this tavern before. I find myself doing the grizzly work I do because of the dystopic setting and the hopelessness and violence which drive the entire world in which it we live. If you can spare a moment, I will tell you what the document I just pinned to the large bulletin board is about. The short story 'The Life of a Gladiator' was my inspiration. Every gladiator has a tale to tell. They are more than the sources of entertainment most make them out to be. Thus, I asked my gladiator to record his own story. He has decided not to spare a detail, and with myself as his editor, hopefully he will not decide to stop writing at some point. As he progresses, more chapters will follow.

He had no history, no future. Those were taken from him, stripped from him like his clothes and weapons, his pride, his name. The Dunder looked down at his chained hands, and moved them up to touch the chains around his neck. A long line of people, like himself, progressed slowly, each of them bound to the person in front of them by the chains that kept them. He was a large man, but not the largest. He knew he was agile, but not the most agile. He was smart, but not a genius. He was in all cases better than the average, but he was never the best. Still, he towered above more than half of these slaves. 'Slave'- The word rang maliciously inside his head, beating on the edge of his mind, torturing him. What had become of him, of a once proud warrior? Nothing but a slave, broken under the clubs of his captors, lashed with the whips of those who had spent their coin to buy him. And now, they took hi-

He felt a sudden pull on his neck. Were it not for his size and the muscles that had survived his time inside the cramped underground vaults that had be his dungeon, he would have fallen. Fallen, like the man behind him. For upon turning his head he witnessed a Spite, legs collapsed under the burden that was his own body. "No.. No more. I- Help me?" The pitiful creature remained there, his limbs desperately trying to grab a hold of the Dunder's ankle. The line halted, and a slaver made his way to the Spite, holding a whip in his left hand, his right on his belt, ready to draw a short and twisted dagger. "Get up." His voice betrayed what everybody who witnessed the scene already knew. The Spite was not going to get up ever again. "Get up!" The slaver took a step closer to the Spite, drawing his dagger. The Spite started begging, pulling at the Dunder's leg. "Please, please.. Help me. He-"

His words cut short as the air was forced out of his lungs by the lash of a whip, the Spite uttered a pitiful wheeze of pain, desperately trying to claw away from the slaver across the sands. Another lash of the whip on his back, and his legs gave a twitch, then fell still. He uttered another cry, and for a moment there seemed to be no sound, no movement. Then the dagger came down, cutting his throat. His body twitched as he turned his eyes upwards for the last time, glancing straight into the Dunder's eyes. It was at that moment that they lost their light, and nothing remained of the creature but a corpse, twitching away its last remnants of life. Before the Dunder could react, he felt a lash on his back, leaving a scalding pain. "Move." And he moved, storing his anger, his pain, harboring them for when the time would be right. His neck felt heavy as he carried a load behind him, a dead weight. But he moved. He would persevere.

It was after no less than an hour of standing under the scorching sun that he was led under a large cloth cover, led under the shade, his feet freed from the sharp stones that had laid in wait in the sands that made up the ground, and onto a wooden platform. His body sighed a breath of relief, and for a moment, so did he. But when he noticed where he was, and as the slaver that had so coldly ended the Spite called out a prize for the 'Dunderen Giant', the irony made him grin. Here he stood, on his own podium, but not for his own respite. He stood here for the interest of everybody except his own. What would happen to him? Would he be sold to a slave laborer to clear the pits? Would he be sold into servitude? Would he be sold to serve as a meatshield, an unarmed slave as they were often used in warfare to break the enemy's lines and endurance?

"I will accept no less than six-hundred gold coins!", the slaver cried out. "Not only can this man work the heaviest loads, but he can work them for a long time too! He is in a fine state, and with his history he will serve dearly in any position which requires a brute." The Dunder looked at the masses calmly, calculatingly. Only the chains around his ankles and wrists remained. His eyes turned to the slaver, and they were cold. "Two-hundred? Is that all?! Nobody else?" The crowd gave no response, and so the slaver turned to his ware. "I have personally cut off this barbarian's beard. He was a fierce warrior, and I bested him! Don't tell me you are not offering any more!" Once again there were no new offers, and the slaver angrily kicked his heel into the planks. "I personally clubbed down his family, his tribe, his brothers and sisters, and put them in chains! Now look at this pathetic creature. Are you telling me nobody will offer me more than a measly two-hundred gold coins for these efforts?!" Laughter rose from the crowd, then a single shriek as the Dunder wrapped his chains around the slaver's throat. "You are the one who is pathetic, filth." His voice was calm, but so very threatening and deadly. "And I will make you pay for what you have done."

The slaver's eyes bulged as the Dunder started choking the breath out of him. For a few moments the Dunder appeared to be holding the upper hand in this fight, and it seemed like for once, the slave would conquer the slaver. Somehow, however, the slaver had managed to grasp his blade in his panic, and he stuck behind him, connecting with the Dunder's side. Both parties gasped, one in pain, the other as he found himself once again able to breathe. With the Dunder's grip broken, the slaver lashed his whip against the slave, who desperately brought up his arms to protect his face, then lowered them to protect his body. The second attempt was in vain, and he dropped to one knee. The slaver grabbed him by the throat and pulled him back to his feet, strangling him. "I will execute you here and now. You are worth NOTHING to me, Dunder." He threw the Dunder to the ground. Despite his hopeless position, he still tried lashing out to the slaver, to the human that had inspired in him such hate. As the slaver pulled his knife and struck down, a voice carried over the noise of the crowd.

"One-thousand!"

The slaver hesitated, and a man climbed the stage, a young woman in tow. Both were dressed in clothes dyed red, brighter than blood. This shade of red was usually associated with either love or hatred. Especially the latter carried a strong meaning, and the first was often discarded as a luxurious commodity. The woman wore medium to light armor, and the man was dressed in a cloak, a hood over his head. On the woman's face and the exposed skin of her arms and legs were fresh wounds ranging from cuts to bruises. One of her eyes was gone, and were it not for these injuries, she would have been a beautiful woman. Even though she was the one who appeared armed, she stayed behind the cloaked man. The Dunder failed to make sense of the pair. The way the woman was armed suggested she was a bodyguard or a gladiator of sorts, which would suggest the man would be her master, and she would be his slave. The way she stood protectively by his side, however, suggested none of this was true, for in her eyes was not duty, not fear, not submission, but a burning loyalty and pride, if not actual care.

"He attacked me! This barbarian attacked me and you want to buy him? No- I will taste his blood!" The slaver seemed to have regained his senses, and he turned back to the Dunder, raising his whip again, ready to strike. The Dunder moved his arms up to protect himself from this strike, knowing he would die, that he would not hold out forever. "You will sell him to me, slaver." The voice was calm, as had been his action. The man in red held the slaver's raised hand, forced it down. The slaver whipped around at this, maddened by this bold action. He struck out with his knife, aiming for the cloaked man's chest. The woman took one step forward and launched her elbow into the slaver's stomach. The man in red grabbed the slaver's wrist and twisted it, forcing him to drop his weapon. "Who do you think you are?!" The slaver shouted madly, spit flying off his lips. He raised his whip once again, aiming to hit the man in red, and the woman reacted by quickly grabbing hold of her off-handed sabre, a twisted and malicious weapon, and lunging at the slaver.

To her obvious dismay she found her action halted as the man simply pushed the slaver off him, causing him to fumble his attack and making him drop on his back. "My name is not important. As to who I am- I lead the 'Red Terrors' gladiatorial stable. This is Ira Terrorvein. I think you might have seen her on the sands." He bowed towards the woman as he introduced her. His voice was still calm, as were his gestures. The only thing that seemed to be keeping Ira from lunging at the prone slaver and finishing him off was the way she looked at the man as he introduced her; a look of respect. The slaver got to his feet once again and approached slowly. He leaned in closely, spitting into the man's face. The Dunder looked on in surprise as the man suddenly grabbed the slaver's throat, raising him more than a foot's length above the podium. He whispered something into the slaver's ear, and he went white in fright. As the man dropped the slaver once again, adding a pouch of gold (he had not been bluffing after all!), the Dunder came to think of him as the 'Red Terror', after the stable he claimed he led and the clothing he wore. But mostly, he thought of him as the 'Red Terror' because of the way he struck fear into the slaver's heart. The Red Terror came over to the Dunder, and Ira set him free. "You are now a free man. If you wish to be a free man with a chance of survival in this ruthless and unforgiving world, you will follow me and be reborn a gladiator."

It had been a week since the Red Terror had given the Dunder a bed, a home, food, shelter and security. He had his own space, a private room concealed behind a curtain where he could rest and recuperate from the scar that his slavery had been on his pride. He had found out that Ira was a gladiator, and she too had been bought by the Red Terror, selected from the stage. She had remarked how he had passed up stronger and larger candidates, some of whom had raged against their chains, others who had made an impression of hopelessness. When the Dunder asked what, exactly, had made the Red Terror decide to buy her specifically, she remained silent.

Now, contemplating these sparse conversations, the Dunder led his eyes across the training room. He had passed by this room three times as he had wandered the complex, when the Red Terror and Ira were gone, attending her fights. Since the day on which the Dunder had been bought, he had not spoken with the Red Terror. He had been shown to his room, and Ira had brought him up to date with the rules of the house. Some of them had surprised him, and he had realized quite soon that the Red Terror was an eccentric man. Save the three servants, who were having their lunch, the Dunder was alone. As he ventured into the training room, his mind wandered to his past, all that he had lost. It wandered to himself, and he stretched his hand before him, opening and then closing it into an iron fist. He stopped in front of a boxing bag. Against the walls were several racks with training weapons, polearms, swords and quite a lot of others. He straightened his back, setting one foot in front of the other, holding his arms up in front of his chest.

It had been a long time that he had directed his hatred, his pain, with such cold calculation. He only snapped out of his focus when he heard a distinct voice behind him. "Invidia; hate. A warrior's strongest weapon and greatest flaw." The Dunder turned. His knuckles were red, but the burning sensation they left was not pain. "In your case; Invidius, the male personification of hatred." His eyes met those of the Red Terror, a dark brown. He was dressed in his formal gown, red. "You use your fists. I wonder whether you are as good with a weapon as you are with them." The Dunder noticed only now what the man in front of him was holding in either hand, and caught the wooden practice sword as it was thrown at him.

The Red Terror lashed out twice, striking the Dunder first in his side, then on his neck. The strikes burned, but he refused to give in. He raised his weapon to block a third attack, a lunge at his chest, and then used the advantage to lunge in return, almost connecting with his opponent. He readied another strike, but the Red Terror kicked him back. The Dunder waited for another opening. "Patient, you wait for the right moment to unleash your strength." The Dunder parried another attack, and his weapon connected with the Red Terror's cheek, grazing skin. The Red Terror simply darted away from the second strike, taking a shield. He threw it at the Dunder. "Your patience best fits a shield-bearer. Your enemy may tire themselves, but they will not taste blood."

The Dunder caught the shield, wielding it as the Red Terror himself threw aside his sword in favor of two curved blades, actual weapons. But a second after he had gotten ready, the Red Terror twirled towards him, striking out with both weapons at once. They dug into the shield, but he kept his guard, throwing his adversary's weapons aside, then striking out with his shield. This one struck home, and his trainer had to take a deep breath to recuperate, then threw down his weapons. "You fight with your fists, even when you are wielding weapons. You realize that they are but an extension of your body. It is not equipment that makes the victor, but the body and mind behind it." He paused, his lips curling up in a slightly grin. "They will call you 'Invidius Fist'."

"In-vi-di-us, In-vi-di-us!" It was not much, but someone, somewhere out there, chanted his name. He was far from becoming a master in the gladiatorial arts – he was regarded as nothing but fresh meat – but he had struck the message home, winning his first four fights against opponents who were supposed to outmatch him. Now, before him, stood the last contender he would have to face before making it to the top of his bracket, allowing him to progress further. His opponent was large and burly. He looked stronger, and had been the crowd's favorite. He stared through his visor at this beast, then saluted. Somewhere in the crowd he spotted the Terror, staring in interest, then leaning to discuss something with the man to his right. As his opponent set into motion, charging towards him, Invidius raised his shield.

The battle ensued as the maul his opponent wielded crashed down on his shield, sending great jolts of pain through the bone in Invidius' arm. Invidius pressed his teeth together, then uttered a warcry, pushing against the weapon, opening his opponent to a counter. He lunged forward, burying his sword in their side. As if they were two dancers partaking in the same act, they both parted after this exchange, each nurturing their injury. For a moment they circled each other, and then the maul came once more. Again the weapon found itself stopped in its wake by Invidius' shield, but with a sickening crack Invidius' arm gave under the brute force of the strike. The crowd cheered, and they chanted the name of his opponent. In the corner of his eye, Invidius noticed the person next to his mentor leaning back, whispering something before bursting out in laughter.

His attention turned back to his opponent just in time, and he only just managed to jump backwards, heavily outmatched. His opponent laughed, and swung their weapon again. Invidius calculatingly jumped back another foot, and the weapon split the air where his skull had been but a mere moment ago. Invidius waited; his opponent was predictable and tried to intimidate him, shouting a taunt he could not make out over the cheering. The crowd wanted the Dunder's blood, and his raging adversary intended to finish it. With a wide and boastful move he rose his maul above his head, and that is when Invidius jumped forward, throwing his weight after his arm. Instead of driving his weapon into his opponent's flesh he set the handle- and his fist- onto his opponent's thigh, causing them to fumble their attack. The next moment, he set all his weight into his shoulder, pushing his opponent down.

Both of them crashed into the ground, and the giant that was his enemy was nowhere near the threat he had been when he was on his feet. Desperately, he tried to get to his feet, his weapon useless when prone - it was too unwieldy to swing – only to find his attempts brought to a halt by Invidius. Forcing his opponent into a defensive curl as he kept swinging his sword, the Dunder slowly got to his feet. There, standing over his once arrogant opponent, he claimed victory, taking only two attempts to break through the loser's defense, heavily wounding him. The maul slipped from his bested enemy's hands, into the sands of the arena. The crowd first yelled and rioted, then burst into cheer. First, it was nameless. Then not his name, but a title carried through the ranks of the spectators. "The New Kid", they cheered, "should decorate the arena with the sands of stronger warriors".

The Red Terror stood proudly by the side, as the Enforcer, the arena's heavily armed referee, gave Invidius the choice of life and death over his opponent. He looked around, blood trickling down his tortured arm, but refusing to give in to the thundering pain. He vaguely realized how easily the crowd had changed loyalties. Where they had once cheered for the mauled figure at his feet to best him, they now demanded his demise. Invidius sighed, looking back down. There was no fight left in this broken body, but there was pride. The eyes that met him accepted their fate courageously, and refused to beg, to discard their dignity in favor of that tiny extra chance at life.

And that saved him. Under the noise of a crowd divided between respect for this gladiator and disgust at their ungranted wish for blood, 'the New Kid' left the arena, no longer fresh meat for the masses, but a promising young gladiator.

As promised, Invidius Fist, a promising gladiator, has written down another part of his story. He took longer than intended, and I must add that he surely could have told us much more about this particular part of his tale, but he insisted that it is not about the amount of words that are written, but the content. As such, I present to you 'Rebirth', the second chapter.

Sincerely,

The Red Terror

(Ps; Critics are still more than welcome. Also feel free to point out any oversights.)